by Shawn Inmon
For one thing, the chance to see Maine in October, when the leaves are changing, was irresistible. Getting to Maine also meant we would officially be driving toward home every day from now on, and that was starting to sound pretty good, too.
We stopped for the night in Old Orchard, Maine, a picturesque little beach town. I’m sure it is hopping in the summer, but in the first week of October, you could set a bomb off in the middle of the main drag and not hurt anyone. Everywhere we looked, we saw signs that said “Closed for the Season,” or “Thanks for a great year! See you next summer.” It had a bit of the feeling of driving through an amusement park after it had closed. In fact, since we were in Maine, now, home to Stephen King, it specifically reminded me of his ghost story Joyland, about mysterious happenings in an old amusement park.
We were staying in a little hotel right on the beach. The weather had definitely turned and it was cold out, but if we left the slider open, we could hear the ocean. We checked in just before it got dark but still scrambled down to the beach for a walk along the seashore. It was windy, rainy, and we got soaked. It almost felt like we were home.
Day Forty-One
The rundown little beach hotel we stayed at the previous night had laundry services, so we started the day with an empty “dirty clothes” suitcase, which always gave a little boost to our day. That got me thinking about how many more times we’d need to find a laundry before we got home. That, in turn, led to me punching our home address into Google Maps to see how far from home we were. The answer, by the way, was 3,281 miles. That distance normally might have seemed daunting, but since it was the closest we’d been to home in more than a month, it didn’t seem so bad. Google also said that if we drove straight through, we could be home in just over 48 hours.
Instead, we would take our time and meander across the northern portion of the United States, using a couple more weeks to cover those miles. We’d also take a lot of side trips and continue to avoid freeways.
The first thing we wanted to see in Maine was a lighthouse. We have lighthouses just down the coast from where we live, but those are Washington lighthouses. We wanted to see a Maine lighthouse. There are so many different lighthouses to choose from on the Maine coast that we were a little overwhelmed, but eventually we chose the Portland Head Light. It was relatively close to us, and historic. In fact, it’s the oldest lighthouse in the state, having sent out its welcoming beacon for the first time in 1791.
We drove to Portland Head expecting to be properly impressed by the lighthouse itself, but didn’t anticipate the effect of the bay below it. When we first pulled into the parking lot and walked toward the bay, Dawn sucked in her breath, put her hand over her mouth, and said, “Oh.” That was about all I had to say at the moment as well. It was wild, gray, and powerful.
We climbed a little promontory to look down on the bay and heard the most miraculous sound. The waves were rushing in over millions of pebbles rather than sand. When the violence of the water meets the rocks, it jostles them, and as it sucks back out to sea, it all makes a sound like nature’s rattle. Dawn thought it sounded like that moment when, in felling a tree, the tree suddenly gives up and begins to go over. To me, it just sounded like heaven—as musical as anything I’ve ever heard in nature. If I could set a tent up on that little hill and listen to that melody all night, I would sleep like a baby.
Our musical bay
I have tinnitus, a continuous whining and ringing in my ears. It’s been with me for so many years that it has become my constant companion. There was something about the water rustling the rocks that put it in exactly the right harmonic range to match and cover the ringing. For those few minutes, the ringing disappeared, which is kind of heavenly all on its own. We came to see the lighthouse, but having discovered the sound of the melodic rocks, we had a hard time leaving it.
There are actually two lighthouses in this location. Portland Head, the big brother, gets all the press, but there is also a small lighthouse that stands in the middle of the bay called Ram Island Ledge Light Station. Rough waves beat over this smaller lighthouse as we watched. I can only imagine what the view would be like from there in the bay, looking in toward the glorious light of Portland Head.
Eventually we hiked up to see the star of the show. The Portland Head lighthouse is so picturesque, so perfectly what we expected, that all our hopes of Maine lighthouses were immediately met. The body of the lighthouse is sparkling white, with the glassed-in lantern room above. There is a lighthouse keeper’s cottage below, also white, with a steep-pitched red roof. The entire operation is automated today, but the lighthouse keeper’s dwelling now serves as an excellent maritime museum.
Portland Head Lighthouse
Portland Head lighthouse was built at the direct order of George Washington, who asked the masons who built it to remember that our young country was still poor and to take every opportunity to use thrifty methods to build it. Somewhere over the centuries, it seems like our government has lost that attitude, much to our detriment.
Oh, one last interesting tidbit about the Portland Head light. Even though it was in operation on Christmas Eve 1886, the Annie C. Maguire ran aground right in front of it. That wreck remains a bit of a mystery, as it apparently happened in daylight with good visibility, upon a rock marked to this day with paint. She was wrecked so close to the shore that the lightkeeper, his family, and some other volunteers were able to help all hands safely to shore. (No word on whether the black box was ever recovered, or if blood alcohol content was checked on the captain.)
Our desire for the perfect Maine lighthouse sated, we turned north, looking for leaves to be peeped. This was pretty close to the moment when I realized that I was no longer a kid but officially an old man: I’d included “leaf-peeping” on my must-do items for a trip around America. Well, if you’re ever going to do it, Maine and Vermont in October are the right time and place.
We had one small problem, though. Maine had suffered through a terrible drought this summer, which according to experts I consulted (a couple of old guys with awesome Maine accents in a small grocery store) caused the changing of the leaves to be pushed back by a few weeks. So, even though the first week of October is typically prime leaf-peeping season, it wasn’t optimal this year. They did tell us that the color change started in the north and slowly made its way south, so the farther north in the state we went, the better it would be.
We didn’t plan a specific route. We just got the atlas out and picked back road after back road that would take us north. There were times we were so lost we sincerely had no idea where we were. We had faith, though, that eventually we would either hit the Canadian border or find a town that actually appeared on a map.
We kept our eyes peeled for anything interesting and pulled off to see a small cemetery ringed by orange and red trees. The cemetery itself was unremarkable—too modern to be of much interest to us—but things definitely got interesting after that.
We knew we were going to hit somewhere between 13,000 and 15,000 miles on this trip—around what an average driver might drive in a year, but we were going to have done it in two months. Statistically, that meant we had a decent chance of either being in an accident or having a close call.
It was to our advantage that Dawn would be our driver on 98 percent of those miles. I am not ashamed to admit that Dawn is a safer driver than I am. If we need to get through traffic in a big city, or get somewhere with a definite drop-dead time, then I’m your guy. For just about everything else, I recommend Dawn. Since those two described circumstances rarely applied during the trip, she was our driver. On this day, at this precise time, I truly believe that having Dawn behind the wheel saved our lives.
A small highway ran alongside the cemetery. As we left, I asked Dawn to stop for a second so that I could hop out and take one of probably 300 photos I took of trees that day. I snapped the shot, climbed into the passenger seat, and we were ready to head north.
Dawn pulled up to the edge of t
he road. The speed limit on the highway was 45 mph. There was a line of traffic heading south, but that was no impediment to us, as we were turning north. Dawn looked left, saw that it was absolutely clear and inched toward the northbound lane. At that moment, a silver pickup truck (F250, I think, but can’t swear to it) came up on the southbound traffic at high speed. It pulled out to pass the traffic, an action that I’m sure looked fine to that driver as there was no one coming toward him from that direction. Except, half a second later, we would have been coming from that direction. He came so close to the front end of the Silver Bullet, it shook the whole car. It was easy to write the equation: Big pickup + high rate of speed, slamming into a mid-size car = horrifying accident and the two of us waking up on the other side of life’s curtain.
Very nearly the last photo I ever took
If I had been driving, the accident almost certainly would have happened. I tend to anticipate when I drive. So, I would have checked left and, seeing it clear, would have already had our two front tires in the lane. Dawn is much more cautious. She checked left, and for some reason, checked again right, just as that silver blur rocketed by us, missing us by a foot or two at most. We didn’t even have time to scream. We just looked at each other, knowing that we were fortunate to still be converting oxygen to carbon dioxide. I asked Dawn if she was alright, she said she was, and off we went, continuing our search for beautiful leaves. What else were we going to do? I will say that everything looked a little lovelier, the air smelled a bit fresher, and I appreciated life just a smidgen more for the rest of that day.
We tooled through the hills for another hour or so, then turned south again, for Bangor.
Day Forty-Two
Why Bangor? Because Derry, Maine, is a fictional place, and I couldn’t visit there. If that’s confusing to you, it’s possible that you are not a Stephen King fan. I know lots of people who aren’t Stephen King fans. Too scary. It gives me nightmares. I get it. But Stephen King is and has been my favorite writer for many decades now.
My appreciation for all things King started about as early as it could have, when I found a paperback copy of Carrie, King’s first novel, sitting innocently on a desk in Mr. Grimes’ English class in 1975. I was fifteen years old, and the story of the telekinetic Carrie and the high school hell she had to endure every day reverberated with me. I became a fan midway through the first chapter, and I’ve never jumped ship. In fact, I named the high school loser in my book The Unusual Second Life of Thomas Weaver Carrie, in homage to the master.
Derry, by the way, is the town in Maine that serves as the nexus of many of the horrors that came pouring out of King’s mind. Sadly, as I say, it is fictional, so I couldn’t include it on our itinerary. What I could include, though, was a visit to his home, which is probably Bangor’s best-known tourist destination. It’s even in Google Maps. You can just punch in “Stephen King’s home,” and it will take you right to it.
So, on a bright and beautiful autumn day, we rolled into Stephen King’s neighborhood. Visiting his house and neighborhood only made me love him more. It’s a pleasant, upscale neighborhood, with large houses and manicured lawns, some of which are behind fences, but it’s not one of those snobby, elite neighborhoods where people look at you crossly just for driving through. It’s nice, but it’s not a community you might expect a guy who has sold 350 million books to live in.
I had dedicated my book Rock ‘n Roll Heaven to him, and I wished I had thought to bring a copy along so that I could leave it at the gate, but all my copies were boxed up back in Seaview. Mr. King, if you ever happen to stumble upon these words, drop me a line. I’d love to send you a copy.
The house sits behind a black wrought-iron gate, which doesn’t disappoint. The gate itself is shaped like wings, and there are two formidable bats standing guard on it. But, beyond that, the house is pretty accessible, which makes me happy for him. It would be a terrible life to be stuck behind gates, guards and roaming security on some kind of compound.
Dawn and I took turns standing in front of the gothic fence. In those photos, Dawn looks vaguely uncomfortable, as though she feels she is invading someone’s private space. I, on the other hand, have my arms flung wide in a welcoming gesture and am smiling from ear to ear. That might tell you all you need to know about us.
Shawn, stalking Stephen King at his home
We left Bangor in time to arrive in Waterville, Maine, about lunchtime. Waterville wasn’t really on our tourist radar, but two of my favorite people, Bob and Karen Lichtenwalter, had moved there, and I wanted to take the opportunity to see them. Since we live 3,000 miles apart, I don’t often get the chance to say, “So, I’m in the neighborhood …”
I met Bob when I was the Managing Broker of a real estate office in Enumclaw. He had called me one Friday night, asking if he could talk to me the next day about possibly joining our office.
Since it was a Saturday, I was dressed down when I went into the office—sweatpants, a T-shirt, and Nikes. Bob walked in wearing slacks, a sports coat, and a tie. The disparity was so great we had to laugh, and we became friends on the spot. Bob scared me when he told me he had been an engineer before becoming a Realtor, because engineers are kind of famous within our field for not having a sense of humor. Not so with Bob. He was one of the driest, funniest guys I’d ever met.
Eventually, I got to know his wife, Karen, as well, and she is the perfect complement to Bob. When Karen spoke, I quickly learned that I should listen.
Bob, by the way, gave me the best piece of marital advice I ever got. He said that if he was ever tempted to disagree with Karen, he considered what they were talking about, then asked himself, “Bob, is that the hill you want to die on?” I’ve taken that to heart ever since.
After an entertaining lunch, we said goodbye to Bob and Karen and drove west. For the first time since we left, we were driving toward home. This trip had felt like the experience of a lifetime, and we were seeing and learning so many new things, but still, heading west was cause for a small celebration.
We spent the rest of the day taking our time, wandering through western Maine and eastern New Hampshire. We felt so at home there, it was almost as though we’d been there before, although neither of us have. I got the atlas out and that explained it, at least a bit. Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, and New York are all on a pretty similar latitude to Washington state. It looks a lot like home to us.
We ended up staying at a terrible little Days Inn in Concord, New Hampshire. We had made every effort to not stay at chain hotels on the trip, but sometimes that was all that was available. From that point forward, we decided that if our choice is between staying in our car or staying in a Days Inn, we will vote for the Silver Bullet.
I am not going to go into specifics about what made this place horrible, but when I talked to the woman at the front desk, who also said she was the manager, she said, “Oh, I know. Isn’t it awful?” Glad to see she has a handle on the situation.
Day Forty-Three
This day, we woke up in New Hampshire, went to bed in upstate New York, and spent the bulk of the day in Vermont. A busy day on the road.
Like Maine, Vermont brings a picture to mind—snow, hills, falling leaves, maple syrup. It was early enough in the year that we didn’t get to see any snow, but everything else was what we’d hoped it would be.
I mean no offense to any of the other states we drove through on this trip, but I believe Vermont was the prettiest, most picturesque state so far. We adored Maine, but I have to admit that Vermont is something special. As we drove through Maine and New Hampshire, I heard the occasional complaint about Vermont: Oh, those Vermonters. They think their poop don’t stink. They think an awful lot of themselves over there.
Now that we’ve driven through, I kind of get it. If I was a Vermonter, I might have my nose in the air just a bit, too. We drove through a dozen small towns, every one of them seemingly auditioning to play the role of “perfect village” in the next Hollywood blockbuster. We st
ayed off the beaten path and drove through a lot of places I’d never heard of, but every place we looked was immaculately maintained and beautiful.
Our first goal was to nab some real Vermont maple syrup. I don’t easily fall for advertising campaigns, and I am skeptical by nature, but before we left on the trip, someone told me, “If you don’t think there’s a difference between Vermont maple syrup and whatever else you’ve ever had, then you’ve never had the real stuff.” That was good enough for me, and Dawn didn’t take much convincing.
Fortunately, wherever you go in Vermont, people are quite happy to sell you some. Each town we came to had a little farmers market, or stand, or store of some kind that specialized in the sweet, sticky stuff. We pulled over to the first one we came to and picked up several little bottles as souvenirs for people back home, and one decent-sized bottle that we would keep for ourselves. As soon as we left that store, though, I could tell Dawn wasn’t satisfied. Her maple itch was still flaring up.
I wasn’t surprised when, without a word, she pulled over into the Corse Maple Farm in Whitingham. It was like a maple mall. I was afraid I would never get Dawn out of there. The lady behind the counter was knowledgeable about maple syrup in a way I didn’t know you could be. She knew the history of the area, how to properly take care of your syrup (my suggestion to just put it in a cupboard and use it on pancakes marked me as unredeemable) and, of course, how to order more once our half-gallon ran out. How much is a half-gallon of 100 percent pure maple syrup, you might ask? $37.75. From the fanatical glow in the woman’s eyes as she proselytized Dawn on the many benefits of maple syrup, I was sure it was worth it.
We escaped with several bags full of syrup, maple candy, and, of course, a magnet. Dawn’s itch had now been sufficiently scratched.